


Alliterative

by sparly503



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Companionship, Dark, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, letting go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparly503/pseuds/sparly503
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of life between Moriarty and Moran, and all those times Seb's had to say "let go".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alliterative

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this. I love this pairing so much. This was partly inspired from the below quote.   
> Don't know, don't own, don't sue.  
> Set and written before S2E3.  
> Cross posted from ff.net and Lj :)

_"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."_

-Havelock Ellis (2nd February 1859 – 8th July 1939)

James Moriarty has changed his life. Breezing in with a skipped step, and most likely a childish grin that beckoned adrenaline and brought danger, with a swish of suave suits and meticulous planning and a thousand new ways of winning, he was the first who saw all Moran could be, and for that he was ever indebted to him. Or rather _connected_ to him. Moriarty is the other side to him.

And he's the other side to Moriarty.

* * *

There's a bottle on the shelf in Moriarty's bedroom, next to a stack of well read books and a snow globe from Switzerland. It's empty and has been for as long as Moran's known its presence. When he asked about it one time, Moriarty just said it was something to do with the first crime he ever committed and they leave it at that. But today Moran is in the room alone briefly, a testament to the trust between them, and the bottle catches his eye, as it always seems to do. He doesn't know why but he doesn't like it. If Moriarty ever shows genuine pain it's when he looks at that bottle, the second before he puts the shutters up.

He stalks over to it and eyes it for a moment. He wonders if he's going insane for having such an ill feeling about an _empty_ , unused glass bottle. Then he gathers strength he didn't realise he'd need and picks it up, rolling it over in his palm and frowning.

"Put it down. Now."

The voice behind him almost makes him jump but years of knowing Moriarty means he recognises his soft tread and is ready for it. He obliges and wishes he had jumped, then maybe he could've had an excuse to drop the damn thing and break it.

"Look," he says, biting the bullet and turning around, "I know this has some strong sort of connection to you but it clearly isn't _good_ , so _rid_ yourself of it. Throw it away."

When he looks at him he notices the tension in his neck and the clench of his jaw, even if his expression is impassive. Moran's had to learn to read Jim's body if he wants to know how his mind is. He reads his body a lot.

"Forget about it. Let it go," his tone is less hard this time, more of a plea.

"I can't forget about it. I _don't_ forget."

Moran steps forward and slide one hand into the inner pocket on Moriarty's suit, the other falls onto his hip.

"I'll help you forget. _This_ is your life now, not what was then. Whatever that bottle connects you to, leave it. It's gone Jim. Let all of that go."

Moriarty doesn't say anything but the next day the bottle accidentally gets smashed and is thrown away.

Moran never finds out how the bottle related to Moriarty, but he doesn't mind. Everyone needs a few secrets to survive, even Jim, and some things aren't worth knowing.

* * *

Moran learns very early on that Moriarty doesn't care about killing. He doesn't care much for death and certainly not for life. Nearly everyone is worthless when it comes to mortality.

Except for one person. When he asks if he can kill him himself, Moran can't disagree. He wouldn't anyway.

He circles the wound with his fingertip, his eyes wide and mad.

"That's my blood," he says, and breaks into mirthless laughter, "that's my blood I've spilt."

Moran reaches over quickly, not pausing to think and takes Moriarty's hand away. With his other hand he feels around in his pocket and pulls out the Swiss army knife he's had since he was twelve. It's never done much before, been overshadowed by the thrill of guns and bombs and fire, but maybe now it'll do its piece. He lifts Moriarty's hand to the knife, and stops for a moment to glance at Jim, who is watching the knife as if transfixed.

"No," Moran says steadily, " _this_ is your blood."

He descends the knife a few millimetres and nicks the skin just below the crease of Moriarty's thumb and index finger. The blood raises, a line of life on his cold hand. Moriarty still stares as though hypnotized.

Moran knows he's on very thin ice and one wrong move could cost him more than living, but for some reason he persists. He's not sure why, but justification doesn't seem important. He supposes with Moriarty it never has. With a careful grip he keeps a loose hold of Moriarty's hand and swaps the knife across so he can put the steel against the inside of his own trigger finger and sweep over the skin, parting the layers and letting the dark liquid lick the edges of the cut. He glances at Jim's face, his eyes dark like the blood and his mesmerized expression, and drops the knife on the floor. Then he hooks his hurt finger in the space between Moriarty's forefinger and thumb and holds it there. He can feel the sting of the two wounds, tiny but significant. His pulse thunders in his throat. It's the risk.

"There's my blood. And yours. We're closer than he is to you. Blood is thicker than water."

Moriarty blinks and nods slowly.

"Water is all he ever gave me."

"Then there you go," Moran says. His gaze falls upon Jim's other hand, still clasping the sleeve of his father. "Let go," he whispers, "let go."

It takes a few seconds but he does. When they're walking away and Moriarty's shoulders loosen a bit more with every step, he suddenly grabs Seb's hand and examines the infliction upon his finger.

"That's going to hurt like nothing else. Idiot, I'm still going to make you shoot a gun."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

Sebastian Moran can kill. Quick and swift or slow and agonising, or any way in between that takes Moriarty's fancy, and he's _good_ at it. Maybe as far as _genius_. It's a funny world full of a fate he doesn't believe in that thought to bring together the master of crime and the prevalent superior executioner. One of the first things he ever said to Moriarty was "I'm a soldier, not a monster" but he's past that now. Denial was never pretty.

Still, surrounded by death in a disused warehouse by the Thames, when his eyes fall on the broken face of a child, his breathing suspends and he has to squash that flicker of fear of the monster within. Years of manipulation and practise makes this fairly easy and a moment later he smiles and bows his head, in a mock salute at what he's done here. There's blood on his shoe.

He's just about to bend down and wipe the contamination away when he hears that voice, calling out to him in a song.

"Hello, dear. Well this _is_ a mess."

Moran looks up and sees him standing there, blocking the cheap light from outside in the doorway and casting another shadow into the room. His instant reaction is usually good when he sees Moriarty but today has been a _really_ bad day and now he's got to clean up this place and why is he even here anyway? Moriarty _never_ turns up on a job. For once Moran feels nothing but a flash of irritation and anger at the man, with his pressed fancy suits and calm orders, and wishes he was anywhere but there.

"What are you doing here?" he asks bluntly, his face set cold.

Moriarty takes further steps into the room and skirting expertly around the bodies, makes sure nothing gets on him. For some irrational reason this annoys Moran even more.

"I came to see you."

"You can see me tonight," Moran responds. Then his faces creases and his eyebrows furrow. "Are you _checking up on me_?"

"No of course not," Moriarty says, in a tone that makes it obvious he thinks Moran's being ridiculous, "have I ever checked up on you before?"

There's a truth to that and Moran wonders for a second why he hasn't, but he'll save that thought for another time. Right now all he's concerned about is keeping the building rage he's got down. He doesn't need another problem today.

"Well why are you here then?"

"I told you. I came to see you."

"Why?"

Moriarty sighs as he stands before him, shaking his head slightly.

"So prickly today," he ignores Moran's glare and gives him one of those smiles that mean nothing understandable and something incomprehensible. "Fine, fine. I came to see how you are. I know today is difficult for you."

_I know today is difficult for you_. _I came to see how you are._ These words are reassuring but they sting. They hurt Moran's pride and they slight his defence. He doesn't need someone to care for him like he's some victim needing support. He has _never_ needed support. Not all those years ago with the dark days and certainly not now, when they're long gone. He takes a step forwards.

"How did you-?" There's no point asking. Moriarty knows everything. "I don't need you to care," he mutters, "or for you to see how I am. I'm fine."

"Evidently," Moriarty says, arching an eyebrow to enhance his sarcasm.

"Look, just let me sort this out. I'll see you later."

"What, and leave you in this state? No, no, no, no, no. You're upset." Moriarty touches Moran's arm. Moran explodes.

"I am _not_ upset," he hisses through his teeth, eyes narrowed, and he tries to yank his arm away. Moriarty tightens his grip.

"No, you're clearly a master of your emotions."

"Don't you dare try and patronize me. I don't feel anything."

Moriarty's stare grows dangerous, his expression determined.

"Liar," he pushes, "liar, liar, liar."

Moran clenches all the muscles in his face, attempting to block out the words. Moriarty sees this and continues, pushes on.

"They're _dead_."

" _Shut up_!"

"Deal with it _. Pathetic human denial._ They are _DEAD_."

"Let go of me!"

And Moriarty does, so suddenly that Moran almost tumbles backwards. Chest heaving and knuckles white, Moran wishes more than anything that he could smash Moriarty's skull in and feel nothing. But ultimately he knows Jim's right. Pathetic feelings get in the way. Moriarty almost looks apologetic but he doesn't say sorry. He stands by his words.

"You know their killer is long gone. Tortured 'til he begged for mercy and didn't get it."

Moran just stares at him. If there was a clock ticking to fill the silence he'd concentrate on that but there isn't. Just the empty sound of death. It's as if there isn't a living thing in the room.

"Piss off," he says finally. Moriarty just sets his mouth in a line and shrugs.

"Fine, I'll be at ours."

With that he walks out.

If Moran could cry he would. Instead he just cleans up, robotically and effectively, and thanks Jim inside his head. For the acceptance, for the pain.

For remembering his day of mourning.

* * *

The fist cuts into his jaw, already throbbing and bruised. He holds his hands up for pax so he can catch his breath and tell of the astonishment he's feeling.

"When did you learn to fight?"

Moriarty gives him unfathomable eyes and an unreadable smile.

"When I learnt that words don't always protect you."

Moran catches the smile with his own and inspects the line of his cheek softly, finding a small delight in the unexpected pain from Moriarty. He winces as his fingers press deeper into a cut made by the cufflink of Moriarty's rumpled suit and his smile widens.

"If it's any consolation, I never thought words would protect me."

" _Your_ words certainly never could."

Moran ignores the knife edge of the remark and turns away to the window, staring out into the dark sky. The rain has left salty tracks down the glass, winding in ways which seem illogical, but connecting so they are one. Perhaps this is what Jim's mind is like, he thinks, irrational to some but perfectly right, clever, always finding a quicker, better path. The thought leaves pretty quickly as he feels a hand grab his arm and twist him around, in a vice grip he could easily break but knows better not to. He can see Moriarty knows this too and apparently that means he's won. Moran's not arguing.

"Never turn your back," Moriarty says, his tone soft and friendly, like a brother giving advice, "and never _console_ me."

A trickle of blood seeps from Moran's gum and slips down the groove of his teeth, until he parts his lips slightly and brushes his tongue over his teeth in show, smearing red across white. He watches Moriarty watch him.

"Let go, Jim," he says, his eyes fixed on Moriarty's.

And Moriarty does.

But not for long.

* * *

If there's one thing they always bicker about, without a doubt, it's what to watch on the television. Moran often remarks on the domesticity of it but all he gets in reply is a roll of the eyes and "oh _Seb_ ". When they have a moment of relaxation and they flick on the TV, it's only a matter of moments until the arguing starts.

"I don't want to watch this, it's _dull_."

"It's better than that boring crime show."

"What? It's great. I love seeing all those old things they've never solved."

"Or the stupid petty criminals who get caught?"

"Them too. Give me the remote."

" _No_ , I like this programme."

"Brainless actors with superficial storylines?"

"At least it's interesting."

"Are you saying crime is not?"

"Don't twist my words."

"Don't leave them open for interpretation."

"Oh for fucks sake!"

Often the arguing turns to fighting which leads to other heated things but for once it doesn't happen as per routine. This time Moriarty stops talking suddenly and presses the off button on the remote. Moran looks up at him, not surprised, more curious. Moriarty walks over to the CD player and instead turns that on, after going through the discs and swiftly choosing one. Then he comes back to Moran, and with a composed, collected air, extends his hand to him.

The clear opening melody of ' _Shall We Dance?'_ fills the space on the room, replacing the noise of the television. Now Moran understands.

"You have got to be kidding. No."

"Why not?"

"I don't...dance."

Moriarty pulls a face at him, mock upset, and then Moran's laughing and sighing in defeat and taking his hand begrudgingly. Moriarty gives him a delighted smile as they move, swirling with the music, turning with the tune. Neither of them is particular apt at dancing but it doesn't matter. The inexplicable emotion of satisfaction and happiness Moran feels troubles him, because when did _music_ make him feel like he does when he's proving how good he is with a gun. But when he spins Jim into his arms he realises that it's the common link that drives him to this elevation. The common link of Moriarty.

Apparently Moriarty has similar thoughts.

"Don't let me go, Seb," he murmurs into Moran's shoulder.

"Not today," Moran replies, and he means not ever.

When the music ends they stay like that, together. In the end Moran speaks.

"Really?"

"What?"

"The King and I?"

"Shut up, I love it."

"Strange one you are."

" _You_ knew it was _from_ The King and I."

"Shut up."

* * *

One night, when they just seem to have ended up in the same bed, Jim murmurs something quietly, and because Seb's on the verge of sleep he has to nudge him with his knee to get him to repeat what he missed.

"Thank you," Jim says, before rolling over and shutting his eyes.

Seb smiles and closes his own eyes, and just before sleep overtakes him fully this time, whispers back;

"Thank you too."


End file.
